Here's a New Rule

I am in a proverbial Southeast USAmerican bona fide Snit.  But I would have to ask my relatives' everlovin' permission to explain the aforementioned Snit. Here's a clue:  Others are deciding of what I am capable -- physically and psychologically.  The alternative clue?  Karma.  The frequency of their declarations of love are proportional to their actual inner dialogues of hate.  This I have brought upon myself by spending twelve years complaining about the pain of CRPS, osteomyelitis, and the lint in my navel.  I confused my Brother Lumpy for a collegial confidant and ought not to have done so.  What I should have been is reticent and yet somehow not the "little sister." There are four freaking years between us, an apparent temporal chasm. So now, information I need about the well-being and needs of Brother Lumpy is being vetted, omitted, diluted so that our shared blood has become like weak water.  I have been denied the honor and the need to see my very ill, very beloved brother, who changed planes at the Tête de Hergé Universal Airport yesterday evening, and will possibly do it again tomorrow.  Could I have managed to rise above my pain, let Bianca Castafiore paint my face into a facsimile of cuteness, tied happy mylar balloons to my wheelchair, and been a boon to the dear boy? Yes, Dear Readers, I could and would.  I would do anything to get there, see him, touch him (lightly, carefully), and make him chortle. Anything.  But it was decided, in a passive and secret voice, that I should not even be told, and certainly not allowed.  

Here's a new rule: 

Even the dying must make an effort to be gracious.  

Everyone knows the adage that "rules were made to be broken." 

In this case, those of us who are spectators to the cruelty of cancer, 

for example, must respect their respective lumpy brothers in all things,

 if that is their conception of dignity, if that is their wont. 

I will become an adept at emitting undetectable telepathic signals of unconditional love and wishes for comfort. Will our Comcast wifi router out in the Computer Turret be of any help with that, I wonder?

He is from the work of a Southern writer
Where every man's a fighter
Where the strong survive
And the weak move north to rest

And he had lines of silver
And hands that delivered
Me down to the river
To drift away alone

And I will never understand
The heart of a lonely man
Why my own wheels are gonna carry me
Far from his gentle hands

And baby, I can't come home
Lord, I've been away now just too damn long
And I can't love wrong
No, I can't love wrong

Late night when the bars are empty
And my liquor's been plenty
And the fiction read
Rests heavy on my tongue

I miss the sound of his dreaming
I can't believe, I am leaving
All that I ever wanted
'Cause I can't love wrong

And I will never understand
The heart of a lonely man
Why my own wheels are gonna carry me
Far from his gentle hands

And baby, I can't come home
Lord, I've been away now just too damn long
And I can't love wrong
No, I can't love wrong

Well, baby, I can't come home
Lord, I've been away now just too damn long
And I can't love wrong
No, I can't love wrong

Oh honey, I can't love wrong
No, I can't love wrong
-- nanci griffith


© 2015 L. Ryan